


Three Nights

by lady_wordsmith



Series: Memories (Bucky/Reader) [9]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel, Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Winter Soldier (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bit of Fluff, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Has Issues, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky is Touch-Starved, Bucky-focused chapter, Bus, Comfort Reading, Declarations Of Love, F/M, Getting to Know Each Other, Hurt Bucky Barnes, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Feelings, Love Confessions, Mild Sexual Content, On the Run, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pre-Relationship, Protective Bucky Barnes, Reader-Insert, Reading Aloud, Sleepy Cuddles, Touchy-Feely, Watching Someone Sleep
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-19
Updated: 2016-09-09
Packaged: 2018-08-09 18:19:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7812250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lady_wordsmith/pseuds/lady_wordsmith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three nonconsecutive nights in the year you spent on the road with Bucky.</p>
<p>Night 1: Nightmares and memories. The ritual of you reading out loud to Bucky begins.</p>
<p>Night 2: <i>“What’s in Mexico, doll?” he asks you, bringing your hand up and winding his fingers together with yours. He must think you’re sleepier than you really are.</i> [...]<i>“Hmm. Is our identification that good? To get across the border?” Bucky’s brushing your hair gently out of your face with his other hand. You realize he’s basically embracing you, almost covering you with his body the best he can.</i><br/>A bus somewhere between Kansas and Texas. Bucky contemplates as you catch some rest.</p>
<p>Night 3: Some change is gradual. Some change happens all at once. After almost a year of gradual change without much discussion, you and Bucky dive off the deep end. And maybe that isn't so bad.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Night 1

**Author's Note:**

> The excerpt being read near the end is from _The Lover_ by Marguerite Duras. The other books mentioned in this chapter are meant to be _Trainspotting_ by Irvine Welsh, _Caligula: The Corruption of Power_ by Anthony A. Barrett, and _A Field Guide to Getting Lost_ by Rebecca Solnit.

After Minneapolis, you and Bucky had gone to Montana, specifically Billings. Once there, you almost immediately had found a used book store. Normally, this would thrill you, but you decided to be judicious. You couldn’t load up on books, what with the limited storage space for them and the fact you would likely be on the move soon. You decided to mostly stick with books you had never read, perhaps a few favorites, so that if necessary you could leave them behind when you left and start fresh wherever you went next, maybe taking only whatever you hadn’t finished.

That first day at the book store, you buy four books. Despite its apparent abundance in the store, you had eschewed Hemingway, deciding that, due to your inadvertent memorization of his most important works years ago, it wasn’t necessary. Instead, you had picked _The Lover_ , which, from the description sounded erotic but not to Harlequin levels, another book, _Trainspotting_ , whose film adaptation you had seen (and had subsequently refused to speak to Hayden for a week afterward because of), a biography about Caligula, and a book called _A Field Guide to Getting Lost_ that you had snapped up right away, sensing an omen.

Bucky said very little that first day in Billings, but he had gone with you to the book store and wandered around on his own, though still making sure to keep you in sight. The scare in D.C. was still on his mind months later, even after you had gone out alone what must have been dozens of times in Vegas and Minneapolis. You just chalked it up to being a quirk and let it go.

Bucky didn’t buy any books, only giving you a grunt when you asked him if he was buying anything. Whatever. He was attached to his notebooks, anyway. You never asked what he wrote in them, even when he ran out of notebooks a week into your stay in Vegas and you had to buy more. You figure if Bucky keeps it up, you’ll have to buy him another bag to keep all his things in. But it keeps him busy and what passes for happy, so you leave him to it.

After finding a motel and getting dinner, you counted the money, sitting at the desk while Bucky went to change for bed. You had paid for a week at the motel, and you automatically set aside two hundred in cash for bus or train tickets.

“We have five hundred in free cash left,” you told Bucky. “After this week, we should go someplace big so I can get a few wallets.”

“Hmm.” Bucky nodded as he got into bed. You’ve learned by now that that particular noise is neutral or noncommittal, coming from him. He’s leaving most things up to you. You’re still not sure why. You would think that as a former soldier, he would be ready to lead. Of course, he’s a few decades out of place, so perhaps Bucky knows that letting you make decisions is the smartest thing.

You change into your pajamas, a pair of pajama pants and a tank top you had picked up in Las Vegas. They’re made of that cooling, moisture-wicking material, which has come in handy since sharing a bed with Bucky is like sleeping next to one of those old-fashioned furnaces that constantly throws off heat. He doesn’t get too close to you at night, but you can feel his intense body heat, anyway. You thought about asking him about it once, but decided that bringing up the topic would just make things weird, or at least weirder than they already were.

You know that Bucky has trouble sleeping at night. He never woke up screaming, but you know the sensation of startling awake, the sharp intake and gasp of breath. Even when it’s not you, even when it’s happening next to you, you know the feeling and the signs of nightmares.

You want to ask. You never do. Asking means explaining, means sharing. If Bucky’s nightmares are anything like your own, you know the feeling of wanting to keep quiet about the horrors in your own head.

Bucky always falls asleep fast, and tonight is no exception. You envy him a bit for that. Sleep, for you, always takes forever even when you’re dead tired. Your mind races too much on that cusp of falling into dreams. You suppose it’s better than the nightmares of years past, the nightmares that sent you to a psychologist who didn’t quite know how to help you, chalking up your nightmares as “normal teenage angst, given the circumstances.”

Even now, years later, you hate that asshole, and sometimes wonder about whether you’re going into psychology partially out of spite.

Tonight’s another night you can already tell sleep is going to be difficult. If you had a computer or even a phone, you would take advantage of the motel’s free wifi and browse the internet, but your cash is too important to waste on a laptop and the last cell phone you had, Bucky had destroyed it when you told him it could potentially be tracked. You could watch TV, but that could potentially wake up Bucky, and one of you should get halfway decent sleep tonight.

You thumb through your purchases from earlier today, deciding on _The Lover_ , if only because it’s probably the closest thing you’ll get to romance in a while. You give your platonic bedmate a sideways glance and chuckle lightly to yourself as you settle into bed and get to reading.

You find the book engrossing, the way it weaves between a first and third person narrative almost without thought, personal and distant. It’s not just a story of a love affair, it’s a story of division and intertwining paths and you find yourself loving it. You’re reading about the girl’s recollections of her father’s death and her mother’s reaction to it when you are startled out of the world of the book by a noise next to you.

Bucky is sitting up before you have a chance to place your book on the bedside table and turn back to him. You recognize the panicked, frantic breaths of a nightmare’s aftermath. Given what you do know about Bucky and his past as a soldier, you slide away just slightly, your knees on the edge of the bed, giving Bucky space just in case he’s not fully awake.

“Bucky?” you whisper.

He doesn’t respond, his eyes seeming clouded over. Part of you wants to reach out and touch him, the way you did when you comforted him in Minneapolis, but you get the feel that this time, it would be like sticking your hand in a tiger’s cage.

“Bucky, it’s me,” you say, telling him your name. “It’s March of 2010. We’re in Billings, Montana, in a motel room we paid for with stolen money. We’ve known each other for two months and change, we were both kidnapped by the same people and you got us out of there despite not knowing me at all. Your full name is James Buchanan Barnes, you were born on March 10th, 1917, but you look a hell of a lot younger for reasons you haven’t told me.

As you talk, spilling every fact you have learned, Bucky seems to come back to himself. He blinks and studies you.

“Why are you sitting like that?” he asks. “You look like you’re about to fall off the bed.” And he reaches out to you with his metal arm and pulls you back onto the bed. You expect him to simply pull you next to him and leave the few inches of space that has been an unspoken barrier that neither of you cross, but Bucky pulls you so close you’re almost half on top of him. You can’t help but let out a small gasp as he does, which makes Bucky freeze and the two of you lock eyes. You’re uncomfortably close, you note, closer than you or Bucky usually allow yourselves to be.

_Stop it, this isn’t a romance novel,_ you scold yourself, breaking off your gaze and gently extricating yourself from Bucky and his hold, settling back behind the invisible barrier.

“Are you okay?” You ask him. “You looked like you were having another nightmare?”

“Another?” Bucky asks in reply, looking at you a little like a lost puppy.

“You have them… Well, not a lot, but often enough that it’s a bit… concerning?” you tell him, unsure of how to put it. “You looked a bit… frantic this time. That’s why I pulled away.”

“You thought I would hurt you.” Bucky states. His face is blank when he says it. You expect him to be a little angry or hurt at your actions, but he seems to regard them as totally reasonable.

You shake your head, trying to tell him why you did what you did, stopping and starting before you take a steadying breath and decide to start simply.

“I used to have nightmares. Really bad ones. After my mother died.” You tell him, your voice a staccato as you will yourself not to cry. “Um… I was twelve, and… I was the one to find her. And apparently when stuff like that happens, it fucks you up and in my case that meant really violent nightmares.” You let out a small huff that could pass as laughter, but the look on Bucky’s face tells you he doesn’t buy it. “So, when I had nightmares, there’d be this, like, gap after waking where I thought I was still in the nightmare? And sometimes I’d react badly if anyone got too close. The best thing to do was give me some breathing room until I came back to myself.” You look back into Bucky’s eyes. “That’s all I was doing, Bucky, honest. I’m not scared of you.”

“Hmm.” That sounds less like a noncommittal sound from Bucky and more like he’s calling bullshit, but he nods as he examines your eyes and eventually reclines back on his pillows.

“Sorry for waking you.” Bucky says.

You shake your head. “I was already awake. Couldn’t sleep.”

“The nightmares?” Bucky asks, sitting up slightly to shift onto his side and look at you. He looks concerned.

You shake your head again. “No. I just have trouble sleeping sometimes. I was reading.”

“Reading what?”

You hand your book to Bucky. He briefly flips through it with a slight frown, handing it back with raised eyebrows.

“They used to ban shit like that back in the day.” He tells you. His tone is scolding, but the slight smile on his face tells you he doesn’t mean it.

“Yes, yes, in case you all became smut-obsessed perverts.” You say with a smile, playing along.

It’s quiet for a while as the two of you sit in a silence that, in spite of the earlier tenseness, feels comfortable.

“It’s really not that bad,” You say, breaking the silence. “The book.”

“It sounds like smut.” Bucky retorts back, smile still in place.

“I could read it to you?” You ask him. “Since it doesn’t look like either of us will be going back to sleep anytime soon.”

You half-meant it as a joke, and Bucky’s quiet for so long you almost want to say his name, see if he’s still awake. Finally, he speaks.

“Alright.” His voice is so quiet you almost have to strain to hear, but then you look over at him, and he’s looking at you with his big blue storm-cloud eyes, his attention totally focused on you, and you find yourself smiling as you flip back to the beginning of the book.

“One day, I was already old, in the entrance of a public place a man came up to me. He introduced himself and said, ‘I’ve known you for years. Everyone says you were beautiful when you were young, but I want to tell you I think you’re more beautiful now than then. Rather than your face as a young woman, I prefer your face as it is now. Ravaged…’”

You keep reading long into the night. You’re not sure when you and Bucky doze off, but you know that Bucky wakes up first because the book is placed gently on the nightstand, a makeshift bookmark made of torn notebook paper sticking out from the pages.


	2. Night Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Night Two: A bus somewhere between Kansas and Texas. Bucky contemplates as you catch some rest.

Your head rested on Bucky’s shoulder while he looked out the window of the bus. He had told you to rest, that he could never sleep in a moving vehicle. You could never sleep anyway, but you tried. The bus was mostly empty and any fellow passengers were asleep, so it was almost like you and Bucky were alone. At least, alone enough that you could talk quietly.

It was summer, and it was raining wherever you were, hard. Kansas was far enough behind you that you could relax. You had made it out, and you were heading out again. You always varied your ticket buying methods from city to city, even if you always paid cash. This time, you and Bucky had reserved tickets online, using a library computer, and picked them up at the station. Bucky had chosen the location this time, deciding to head south, to Texas.

“You want us to burn alive.” You had first remarked on seeing the ticket. “Texas in the summer?”

Bucky had shrugged. “It’s better if we don’t settle into a pattern.” He told you.

He made sense, the ass.

“I suppose if worse comes to worse, we could always go to Mexico.” You mumble now into Bucky’s ear.

Bucky shifts himself so much he’s almost facing you, and you find yourself relaxing against him more,  as he turns his eyes away from the window to focus on you.

“What’s in Mexico, doll?” he asks you, bringing your hand up and winding his fingers together with yours. He must think you’re sleepier than you really are.

“Some friends. They’d hide us for a while.” You say, letting your head lull completely against his shoulder. “They won’t tell anyone.”

“Hmm. Is our identification that good? To get across the border?” Bucky’s brushing your hair gently out of your face with his other hand. You realize he’s basically embracing you, almost covering you with his body the best he can.

“Mmhmm. Yeah.” You whisper, thinking perhaps you _are_ more tired than you thought.

“Okay. Mexico.” He says. “If it comes to that.”

You think you make a sound of agreement, but the last thing you’re aware of is Bucky running his hand through your hair.

* * *

You snore lightly against Bucky as he watches you, watches the inside of the bus. He hates traveling at night, but sometimes day-long bus rides were an unfortunate fact of life when you were on the run. So he stays awake, which is fine because it seems that the only time he sees you sleep is while you’re actively on the road. Maybe movement, or the idea that you’re on the road, away from whatever bothers you, or _whatever_ , frees you, allows you to sleep.

So he’ll guard you. He doesn’t mind. You take his mind off his nightmares when you read. You even did that in Kansas, when you were squatting in that barn without a book, recounting all the Hemingway Bucky had missed in his years as the Winter Soldier. When you ran out of Hemingway to talk about, you had only stalled briefly, before deciding to talk about, of all things, polydactyl cats (Bucky suspected your brain was still on Hemingway). You protect him from his darkest thoughts, and it is only fair he guard you like this in return, even if you’re only on a bus to Texas and it’s unlikely your fellow passengers will attack.

You only mentioned the nightmares offhandedly a few times, but Bucky remembers what you said. The death of your mother, being the one who found her. You’ve never told him the circumstances but Bucky can guess; he’s not stupid. Combined with that and your obvious unease whenever you mention your father (who Bucky still knows next to nothing about), Bucky gets the feeling your parents are the kind who should never have had children. He knows more about your cousins than your parents, even if he doesn’t know names.

You guard yourself well enough, Bucky thinks, even if you let your guard down occasionally enough to offer him pieces of yourself, stories of your life. He thinks you do that to help him remember, trying to find a common connection even in the gulf of years between you. No matter why, it’s clear that, by sharing yourself, even as cautiously as you do, you trust Bucky. It’s not a lie when you say it.

Bucky trusts you, too, even if he only recently admitted it out loud. But Bucky was uncertain that it was simply trust that bound him to you. It wasn’t just keeping you safe; you had proven time and again that you could handle yourself. The HYDRA operative in the barn was only a small part of that. The backpack kits, the ticket schemes, and your ability to seemingly discern who to trust out of nowhere told Bucky that you’re more than clever enough to make it on your own.

At first Bucky thought you kept yourself attached to him because extra muscle was never a bad idea, but that idea was shattered as early as Las Vegas. When he had expressed his reluctance at helping you with your high risk theft plans, you had accepted that and went on your own, revising your plan so Bucky didn’t have to do anything he wasn’t comfortable with. So it wasn’t the idea of having an extra amount of brunt force at your side that kept you with him.

When you became aware of his nightmares, Bucky thought you would leave then. You didn’t need some broken soldier, a prisoner of war with nightmares _and_ the reluctance to help you do what was needed, he thought. So when you only joked lightly and offered to read to him at night when neither of you could sleep, Bucky was a little shocked. Didn’t you know he was useless to you? He knew that he would have left, if the shoe had been on the other foot.

But Bucky knew _that_ wasn’t even true. Hadn’t you told him of your own nightmares, of that bit of aftermath when your mother had died that still sometimes haunted you? He hadn’t left you then. It was never even a question. And he had no idea why. He never saw evidence of your nightmares, but that didn’t matter. He knew anything that could potentially be used against you, anything that could draw attention, was a liability. And you both had laundry lists of liabilities attached to you that made separating a good idea and a logical conclusion.

But when push came to shove and the chips were down, you had Bucky’s back and he had yours. The incident in Kansas proved that. The HYDRA operative could have taken the two of you down if you had been any less trusting of each other. When Bucky revealed he knew who the guy was affiliated with, it could have gone a different way, any number of different ways. But you trusted him, and you still hadn’t asked.

You never asked Bucky about his demons, never tried to force him to tell you anything. He had offered small bits, things you probably didn’t think about or question. You never used those small bits of information as a springboard to force Bucky to tell you anything. If anything, you seemed to not notice these small pieces of information as the big problems they could potentially be. Bucky didn’t know if you were being willfully obtuse or genuinely had no idea, but he knew every second he spent with you put you in that much more danger.

And still he didn’t leave, and he had no idea why. It would be the smart thing, for one of you to abandon the other.  It would probably keep you out of danger now, especially since HYDRA said your kidnapping was a mistake and trying to kidnap you again if you went home was too risky. As it was, Bucky wasn’t sure if you staying with him wasn’t making things easier for HYDRA. After all, they could kidnap you again while you were still a missing person and no one could know.

He had to tell you everything, lay it all out on the table. When you reached your next destination, he had to be totally honest about everything and allow you to make an informed decision.

You stir against Bucky, and he stills, holding his breath as if you heard his thoughts.

“We there yet?” you murmur, and Bucky lets out his breath, relaxes.

“No. Go back to sleep, doll. I’ll wake you before we have to transfer.” He tells you.

“’Kay.” You say, already halfway back to sleep. “Thanks, Bucky.”

Bucky brushes your hair behind your ear again. “Yeah, doll. No problem.” He says, his voice barely above a whisper as he scans the bus again for any danger.  

Your fellow passengers now amount to a woman and what looks like her young children, an old woman, and a young man who can’t be more than eighteen or nineteen. All of them, except the young man, are sleep. The young man is reading a book, though in the mostly dark space of the bus and the absence of any passing streetlights, Bucky can’t see the title.

Bucky thinks that, if any of them tried anything, he could definitely take them. So he relaxes, just a little. Just enough to allow you to practically melt your body against his. In sleep, you almost act boneless, Bucky thinks. He allows himself to wrap his arms around your waist, almost pulling your body flush against his. He tells himself it’s a protective measure, in case he has to move you quickly out of the way to protect you.

Bucky lets his mind drift. He thinks about Mexico, about Hemingway, about the sharing of nightmares.

It all comes back to you. He finds he doesn’t mind.

* * *

“Doll, We’re almost there. Wake up.” You hear Bucky say.

“Hmm?” You manage raising your hand to wipe your eyes. The last thing you remember is talking about Mexico as you rested your head against Bucky’s shoulder. You’re resting like that now, your head against Bucky’s shoulder as he looks out the window.

“We’ll be at the bus station in ten. We have to transfer in Dallas, remember?” Bucky reminds you.

You sit up.

“Right.” You say. “Did you get any sleep?”

Bucky shakes his head. “Been counting the streetlights.” He tells you.

You frown at him. “Sorry for falling asleep on you.” You apologize, but Bucky shakes his head.

“You needed the rest,” he tells you. “I didn’t mind.”

You sigh and nod. “Thanks,” you mumble, still apologetic. “What time is it?”

“Just after one in the morning,” Bucky tells you. “You can sleep again after we transfer buses.”

You shake your head. “I’m good,” you tell him, and you don’t notice the frown on his face.

It’s quiet in the bus as you catch your bearings and finish waking up fully. After you transfer and settle onto your new bus, Bucky looks over at you. The two of you are the only passengers this late at night. There will probably be more pickups as you go on, though.

“So tell me more. About Mexico.” He says.

You look up at him from your head’s place on his shoulder.

“I don’t remember what I told you to begin with.” You say.

“You have friends there.” He supplies, his face all business. He had been softer on your previous bus, but now, with you fully awake, he seemed ready to discuss plans.

“Right.” You say, settling in and telling Bucky what he needs to know as the bus goes on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was the hardest to write, because while I knew what I wanted to happen in chapter one and I know what I want to happen in the last chapter, I wasn't sure what I wanted to do here. Discarded ideas included: a chapter making it clear Kansas corresponded to the memory of Bucky and the Reader Character sleeping on the floor from _A Memory Through Gauze Curtains_ , a chapter in Georgia to link to an event mentioned in the final chapter of _Three Days_ , and a chapter where Bucky intends to leave but comes back. I hope this one is alright.


	3. Night Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Night Three. Some change is gradual. Some change happens all at once. After almost a year of gradual change without much discussion, you and Bucky dive off the deep end. And maybe that isn't so bad.

It’s the middle of the night. You could hear the wind whipping around outside, whistling a warning against the windows. You look up from your book, turning your head to catch a look at the window. You bet if you touched a hand to it, you would feel frost at your fingertips.

Despite the cold, you wore nothing to bed except for a pair of panties and Bucky’s red-and-black flannel plaid shirt. It hung so loosely on you it was almost a dress, brushing your thighs lightly as it hung like a drape from your shoulders. Bucky had been surprised to see you in it when he came back tonight with dinner.

“You’re wearing my shirt.” He had said, his eyes conveying surprise. He seemed amazed with almost everything you did now, even after all the time you had spent together.

“Warm. Reminds me of you.” You replied by way of explanation, moving to pull the shirt tighter around yourself in a moment of self-consciousness, but Bucky had stepped forward and taken your hands in his, smiling at you with kind, amused eyes.

“Well, then, I guess that’s alright.” He said, ending the discussion there as he pulled you close and held you.

Bucky himself was currently sleeping beside you. For once he seemed to be sleeping peacefully, which you were infinitely grateful for. Bucky’s sleep quality has definitely been hit-and-miss in the almost year the two of you had been together, but here in Wyoming, he sleeps serenely, almost a full night much of the time you’ve spent here.

You’ve been in Wyoming almost a month now, which surprises you because you haven’t spent almost a month anywhere since the beginnings of your time together. You’re not sure if it’s because you can relax more in the winter, or because Wyoming is simply too beautiful to leave. Of course, that just might be rose-tinted glasses talking, the recent events in your personal life coloring everything else as beautiful.

You sigh, setting your book aside. It’s one of those nights; you’re experiencing a feeling of agitation under your skin. You can’t explain it. It’s not just being unable to sleep, it’s something else.

You get up and head into the bathroom. Splashing cold water on your face, you sigh and pull your hair away from your face. Gazing into the mirror, you note that you look very different than when you had started this journey. It’s not a physical thing, you think, as you gaze at and take note of your features. You look much the same, except for perhaps some longer hair and the weight you’ve lost from a combination of so much walking and not eating as much as you used to.

No, it’s not your looks, but they’re different, too, in small but significant ways. You look slightly wilder now in the eyes, more suspicious. Your lips curl into some semi-permanent facsimile of a smirk when you’re in public now, but your face seems to relax and soften in private, alone with Bucky, and it’s like two sides of the same coin. But your eyes, you suspect, are permanently altered. They show what’s different about you, quicker than your walk or your posture, or even the rest of your face.

Sighing, you let your hair fall back down around your face and head back into your room. You’re not in a motel room this time, instead staying in a cabin that was owned by a friend of yours, Kai, who used to be your TA in a psychological research class. You had been up to the cabin once almost two years earlier, with Kai and some friends, for snowboarding and skiing after the fall semester had ended. The property manager remembered you, and let you in, promising discretion when you offered him some cash.

You’re pretty sure the guy thinks you and Bucky are engaged in some torrid affair that Kai needs to be unaware of for whatever reason. Let him think that, if it gets you a cabin with a hot tub and premium cable.

You think, idly, that you could soak in the hot tub. It’s on the back deck, and has been properly maintained so that sitting in it would keep you nice and toasty even outside, as long as you grabbed some slippers and a bathrobe to step into once you left the tub. But in the end, you head back to bed, deciding that you prefer lying in bed, even if you can’t sleep.

You grab another book from your bag before you settle into bed. You flip idly through it, and occasionally a snippet from the short story collection in your hands catches your eye, but your interest isn’t sustained long enough to really read any of them.

You know almost before it happens when Bucky wakes up from his nightmare, setting your book aside and turning to him. He’s taking deep breaths, big gulps of air, but he seems to settle as your eyes meet and hold his. You fall into the old breathing pattern almost without thinking, that one you learned in some psych class, about how a certain pattern of breathing, of inhaling and holding and exhaling, heads off panic attacks, and Bucky is able to follow the rhythm you set without either of you exchanging a word or moving.

Bucky breaks the held gaze first and you idly reach your hand behind you, to your nightstand, to grab the book you had just been reading. However, Bucky takes your hand and instead pulls you to him.

“C’mere,” he mumbles, pulling you on top of him. You don’t even hesitate, settling your head on his chest as his hands run through your hair.

You don’t normally get this close, at least during sleep. Bucky’s nightmares have never scared you, even after you knew what they were, but he prefers his space at night and you respect that.

“Another nightmare?” You ask, knowing the answer but also knowing that sometimes Bucky needs to talk about them.

“Hmm.” He murmurs. It’s only then, looking up at him, that you notice Bucky’s eyes are firmly fixed on the bedroom door. “It’s not safe here. We’ve been here too long.”

A part of you wants to argue, that being in a cabin in the middle of nowhere in Wyoming is the safest place to be in the dead of winter. Then there’s a part of you that knows better, that Bucky’s right and you only really want to argue because this is the nicest place you’ve stayed in a while. A part of you dreads the idea of motel rooms again, of homeless shelters and abandoned buildings and the fear you’ll both be discovered and have to explain over and over why a missing woman and a man who supposedly died over half a century ago are on the run from a shadowy group that everyone thinks only exists in the history books. At best, you face a mental institution. At worst, you face HYDRA cutting a bloody swath to keep its secrets.

“Hmm.” You settle for instead, deciding that it’s pointless to argue because in the end, Bucky is right.

Bucky looks down at you and you raise your head off his chest, pulling yourself up to eye level and holding his gaze, wondering what is on his mind. He raises his metal arm slightly, resting his fingers on the top button of the plaid flannel you had stolen from him to sleep in.

_Oh._

“Is this okay?” he whispers, nodding at his fingers on the button.

You almost nod but catch yourself. “Yes,” you say, your voice only slightly louder than Bucky’s.

Bucky undoes the buttons on the shirt, keeping his eyes on yours the whole time, probably studying your face for any change or withdrawal of consent. When he finishes undoing the buttons, he slides his metal hand between the flannel and your skin, cupping your breast in his hand. He nonchalantly drags his metal thumb across your nipple, pausing when you let out a soft whimper.

“Don’t you dare stop,” you tell him, which makes him chuckle.

“Your wish is my command, Doll.” He says, rubbing your nipple in lazy circles with his thumb as his fingers press against your breast.

Just this simple touch ignites you, and you want to tell Bucky to get on with it, but then his hand falls away from your breast. He slides his metal arm down your side slowly in a caress, making you shiver. His hand comes to a stop at your hip, and he grips you like that, holds you in place as he sits up, shifting you with his other hand so that as he sits up in bed, you’re situated in his lap, mostly comfortable.

Well, aside from the fact you’re now completely aware of Bucky’s hard-on pressing against you, even with the barrier of his pajama pants and your panties. You remember how the first time your bodies were close like this, you blushed and backed away. Bucky had thought he had done something wrong, and you blushed even redder as you explained your situation to him.

You wonder if Bucky feels a spark of pride at being the first man to touch you like this, even if things haven’t progressed to full-on sex. Being the first man to advance past a fumbling make-out session with a particular girl was a point of pride, right?

Probably. But you knew that it was more than that for you and Bucky. After all, didn’t he respect your boundaries, and didn’t you respect his? The way he always asked if you wanted this, wanted him… He cared for you and your well-being, and being with him like this only increased your feelings of safety and comfort in Bucky’s presence.

But still… was it really because the two of you had connected, or was it because the two of you were there at the same time? After all, you two had pretty much been each other’s only constant contact for almost a year.

“You seem to be thinking pretty hard there, Doll. Everything okay?” Bucky asks, breaking you from your train of thought.

You realize he’s put a little space between your bodies, but you’re still close, still in his lap. You sigh and rest your head on his shoulder, and Bucky wraps his arms around your waist.

“Is this just a thing? Because of our circumstances?” you ask him, raising your head to look him in the eye.

“What are you asking?” Bucky replies, and you can see he’s very confused.

“Am I just convenient? To you, I mean.” And now the look in Bucky’s eyes is giving way from confusion to anger. He slides you off his lap, not breaking eye contact.

“Is that what you think? That I… That I would do that to you, be like that to you?” He asks, and it doesn’t take a genius to see that he’s clearly hurt by your words.

You’re not sure how to answer, so you don’t. Bucky doesn’t break eye contact with you, and when you try to pull your eyes away Bucky gently grabs your chin and pulls your gaze back to him.

“Why would you think that?” he asks, his voice surprisingly tender in spite of the residual anger you can still see in his eyes.

“I’m not an idiot, Bucky.” You tell him.

“Neither am I, but I find myself at a loss to explain why the _hell_ you would think you’re just a warm body to me.”

“I don’t know, okay? I just know there’s no way I’m good enough for you!” You snap.

Bucky freezes, and for a second you think that it’s all over, that your time together is over. And despite the fact that that puts all kinds of fears in you, and you’re especially scared of losing Bucky, there are no words jumping in your throat to take that statement back.

And then Bucky starts chuckling, almost all-out howling laughter, and your heart feels like it’s about to break into a thousand small pieces when he pulls you back against him and kisses you, hard.

“You’re too good for me, too good for anyone.” he says as the two of you pull away from the kiss. He’s still holding you, holding hands gripping your hips in a way that will probably leave bruises in the morning. “And anyone who’s ever told you otherwise is a filthy fuckin’ liar.”

You wince slightly at Bucky’s language, and rest your hands against his, gently coaxing him to loosen his hold on you.

“You’re a good person, Bucky. You deserve to really be happy with someone.” You protest, but Bucky shakes his head.

“Even if I was a good person, I still wouldn’t ever be able to deserve you. Not after all I’ve done.” He says.

“And what about me?” you ask, cupping Bucky’s face in your hands and making him look you in the eye again. “I’ve done horrible things, too, Bucky, both right at your side and before I ever met you. I’m not perfect.”

Bucky nods, but you still let out a sigh.

“We make quite a pair, don’t we?” you ask, letting your hands fall away from Bucky’s face as you rest your forehead against his.

“From the second we met, I think.” Bucky says in way of agreement, tilting his head briefly to press a gentle kiss at the corner of your mouth.

“I hated your guts.” You confess with a snort, pulling away to look Bucky in the face. You scoff when he raises his eyebrows and puts on an offended face. “You made me cling to you as you jumped ten stories, dude!”

“Thirteen,” Bucky corrects you with a grin.

“Okay, thirteen. Then you dragged me, like, sixteen miles-“

“Five!”

“Okay, five,” you agree with a smirk. “The point _being_ , I wasn’t made for that shit.”

“You lived, didn’t you?” Bucky asks, grin still in place, and you slide off his lap as you playfully shove him away from you.

“I don’t know, still figuring that out.” You joke, shifting so that you’re lying on your side in front of Bucky.

Bucky rolls his eyes at you. “You’re lucky I love you, Doll.”

And it’s like the world stops there. The two of you have never talked about love, even after the first time you kissed. The word was never brought up, much less feelings. Sure, being together the way you had could be seen as expressing love, but you never spoke it. Speaking made it real, and while you were more than willing to hash out issues of consent and potential pregnancy and the physical stuff, you never talked about love, at all, even in jest.

And the look in Bucky’s eyes makes you think his words aren’t nearly as off-the-cuff as they appear to be.

For his part, Bucky looks like a deer in headlights as it dawns on him what he said. You sit up again, and reach out a hand toward Bucky, but he pulls away, scooting back until his back touches the headboard of the bed.

“Bucky?” you ask, confused.

“Don’t.” he mumbles.

“Don’t _what_?” You try to move closer to him, but he tries to move even though his back is against the headboard, and the way Bucky scrambles away makes you pause and lift up your hands in a gesture of surrender.

Bucky relaxes back against the headboard again, but he’s breathing like he’s having another panic attack. You try to help him through the breathing technique again, but it’s like he can’t even see you.

“Don’t leave me,” he manages to gasp out. “ ’M sorry, just forget it, I won’t say it again…”

“Say what?” you say, modulating your voice to be soft and comforting.

“Promise you won’t leave.” Bucky demands, raising his eyes to meet yours. He looks frantic, but there’s something else in his eyes.

“Haven’t left yet, don’t plan to anytime soon.” You tell him. “I’m not leaving until you want me to.”

“Don’t-don’t say that.” Bucky snaps at you, and you see tears in his eyes.

“What? It’s true. I’m not leaving just because you got mushy on me in a moment of letting your guard down.” You tell him sternly. Bucky shakes his head.

“Don’t you get it?” He demands. “I love you! That’s the worst thing I could have done!”

You pause, looking at Bucky. He’s, to put it mildly, a complete wreck right now. He’s gone and metaphorically ripped his skin open with his bare hands in front of you, left himself bleeding and wounded and exposed for you to gaze upon and take in.

You know why he thinks it’s the worst thing he could have done. It’s not because of your ridiculous self-doubts about how you look or any small, insignificant thing like that. It’s bigger than that, almost too big to comprehend.

“I already had a HYDRA target on my back, Bucky. I don’t know why, but I did, and I’m going to have that target on my back no matter what.” You say, your voice eerily calm as you inch closer to Bucky. “Nothing you or I do changes that.”

“But this…” Bucky snorts, in clear disgust with himself. “They would kill you now if they found us, because they would know. Make me watch, or make me do it. Whatever hurts worse.”

“They’re not mind readers, Bucky.” You’re close enough now that you can reach out and touch him, and you brush your fingers against his, which makes him look down at your hands.

“They don’t have to be.” He tells you. “It’s obvious.”

“It wasn’t obvious to me.” You protest, which actually makes Bucky laugh, though he looks guilty almost immediately afterward.

After that, the two of you are silent, neither one of you sure of what to say. Finally, Bucky speaks.

“Just forget it, okay?” he asks.

You bite your lip and look away from Bucky. Your gaze settles back onto the bed, to your and Bucky’s hands, which are still faintly touching. “What if I don’t want to forget?” you ask.

It takes all of your courage to look up at Bucky. Rather than the relief you expected from him, he looks even more afraid than before.

“No.” He says, but you move closer.

“I love you, too, Bucky. I… I don’t know when it happened. It’s like it was just there.” You say. “I don’t want to forget any of this.”

Bucky raises a hand, cupping the side of your face in his palm as he weaves his fingers through your hair.

“Don’t lie.” He croaks out.

“I’m not lying,” You tell him.

It’s almost like you move in tandem, closer together until your lips are touching. It’s not passionate and frenzied like the earlier kiss, or even like your first kiss. It’s something deeper and clearer, like the world opening up in the space of a breath, or a heartbeat. You’re not sure which one of you is crying, or if you both are. You’re not clutching at each other, either, the way you have in the past. Aside from the hand on your face threading through your hair, Bucky isn’t touching you at all, and you’ve only raised a hand to meet and grip the wrist of the hand Bucky is touching you with.

You’re not sure who pulls away first, or if the two of you pull away at the same time. All you know is that when Bucky opens his eyes, he’s looking at you like you hung the moon.

“I love you, Bucky.” You say again.

“Then we’re both doomed.” He tells you.

“I’ll risk it for you if you risk it for me.” You respond, feeling the fire of determination rising in you. You would fight for this man, you knew, live and breathe and die for him if you needed to.

Bucky looks at you, not speaking. It feels like an eternity before he nods.

“Anything for you.” It’s like he’s declaring his love for you all over again, the way he says it.

Your hands tangle with his, and nothing more is said as Bucky pulls you close and you lay back down on the bed together, side-by-side.

Nothing more needs to be said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, originally, I was going to have the first time the two of them said "I love you" be this big mystery until much later in the story. This was just going to be about connecting to previous stories (the dialogue about the shirt being from _A Quiet Day_ and the dialogue when Bucky first wakes up being from _A Memory Through Gauze Curtains_ ) and mostly serving as a reminder that the two of them only spent about a year together, so it being winter again like it was in _Spark of Light_ means their time together is short.
> 
> So of course Bucky and the Reader Character say "Fuck that," go off-script, and manage to make it even _more_ bittersweet (what with the "I don't want to forget" business from the Reader Character, and the whole bit at the end about risking it for the other person). That said? I like it.
> 
> One more one-shot for the interlude, and then it's back to the main story and the present day. I might revisit more of the past between them, but it will probably be in one-shots here and there that relate to the main plot.


End file.
